


i've got a question for you

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Needs a Hug, Love Wins, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Oblivious Phil, Tony Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint tries to propose. It doesn't go so well. And then things just roll on downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've got a question for you

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _Question_ by Old 97's.
> 
> The timeline for this runs from post-Avengers up to post-AoS Season 1 and post-CATWS, but only in a vague way.
> 
> Started over [here](http://phaeshmae.tumblr.com/post/117147924505/phlint-im-not-drunk-youre-drunk) as a prompt fill for an anon, and then [cat-onawall](http://cat-onawall.tumblr.com/) pointed out that it sounded like the start to a 3+1, and from there it grew.
> 
> #LoveWins

“I’m not drunk, you’re drunk.” Phil points an accusing finger his way and makes to stab at Clint with it, but he misses and ends up swaying forward dangerously.

 

Clint ducks down so that he can loop Phil’s arm over his shoulders and keep him steady; it takes him a few tries because he’s feeling a little tipsy himself. “Fine, but if I’m drunk, then you’re three sheets to the wind.”

 

Phil tries to glare at him, but given that he’s focused just to the left of Clint’s face, he’s probably seeing double at this point. “I am–I am _not–”_ He cuts off abruptly and all the blood drains from his face, leaving him sickly looking.

 

Clint barely has enough time to maneuver him to edge of the sidewalk and over the nearest trashcan before Phil’s puking that ridiculously expensive dinner right back up.

 

“Seriously, man? You had, like, three glasses of wine.”

 

Phil looks up at him through haunted eyes. “It’s my Kryptonite,” he whispers hoarsely before bending back down to dry-heave.

 

Clint sighs and rubs Phil’s back soothingly. “You coulda mentioned that earlier, you know?” He can feel the faint quivers racking Phil’s spine, and his own stomach lurches in sick sympathy.

 

There’s a corner store just up ahead, and Clint carefully walks Phil inside to get him a bottle of water. Phil’s at least stable enough to hold the bottle up on his own, so Clint steps back to give him some space and self-consciously pats down the pockets of his too-loose suit jacket. The ring’s still there, stashed in his inside pocket and very much not wrapped around Phil’s finger, which is how this night was meant to end.

 

To himself, Clint mutters, “Note to self, next time nix the wine.”

 

And thus begins Clint’s ill-conceived quest to propose.

 

* * *

 

The wine was an understandable fluke. Clint put too much stock into the idyllic notions of the romances he binge-watched on Netflix and forgot to factor in the fact that he’s never actually _seen_ Phil hold a glass of wine, much less partake. Which, given the mess that is Drunk Phil, who he finally had the dubious pleasure of meeting the other night, makes sense.

 

Clint just needs to change his game plan, that’s all. Because he _is_  going to propose to Phil. And then Phil’ll say yes, and they’ll live as happily ever after as a couple dedicated to saving the world from invading aliens and other such catastrophes can manage. He’s not banking on anymore miraculous return-from-the-dead saves for either of them; Phil’s definitely used up their allotment after somehow surviving getting stabbed by a evil megalomaniac alien. So really, there’s no time like the present, or more like, there’s no time to waste, ‘cause who knows what supervillain will rain terror down on the city tomorrow.

 

The ~~uncomfortably~~ fancy dinner is out of the running, so he turns his mind to coming up with places they both like to go, where the proposal will be a happy, perfect memory and they can revisit the place every year on their anniversary.

 

Clint sets to work making up a list.

 

* * *

 

He ends up on a baseball game.

 

Low-key in terms of dress, beer’s the only alcohol on offer, and greasy hamburgers and hotdogs are really more their dining style anyway.

 

Also, there’s the surprise factor, ‘cause while Phil had looked a little suspicious at the fancy dinner setup (come to think of it, the suspicious glances around the restaurant had been what started the too-much-wine debacle) sports games are a regular in their dating wheelhouse, and therefore no cause for concern.

 

So he calls the stadium and sets up a jumbotron display with them, gets all the particulars like where they’ll be sitting and when the proposal will show up on screen out of the way, and then when the day arrives, he tempts Phil out of his stuffy office where he’s been stuck on limited desk duty by waving the tickets right under his nose. Clint doesn’t even demand that Phil change out of his usual suit because he’s an awesome ~~boyfriend~~ ~~lover~~ guy like that. Though, he does strongly suggest that Phil leave the jacket behind and roll up his shirt sleeves, but that’s really just for Clint’s own benefit seeing as Phil’s forearms are wonderfully distracting.

 

The game is close and coming in on the seventh inning stretch when Phil gets up to grab more food. Clint, glancing anxiously at the big screen, trails after him with the excuse of carrying their drinks back.

 

There’s a line because that’s just how Clint’s life goes, but it’s moving at an okay rate, and they should have another few minutes. He tries to subtly prod Phil into walking back to their section faster, but he seems content to mosey on along, eating a mustard-drowned hotdog as he goes.

 

At one point, the mustard escapes the flimsy paper holder and oozes over Phil’s palm and down his wrist. Clint’s brain falls offline for a sec while he takes in the full majesty of Phil licking up the yellow path and then sealing his lips around his thumb to suck off the worst of the mustard smear.

 

The sudden cheering of the crowd pulls him out of the moment, and he whips his head around, automatically zooming in on home plate to see what’s happening, but the team’s crowded around the pitcher’s mound talking. And then he thinks to look up at the jumbotron, and sure enough, _Marry me, Phil?_ is blinking in vibrant purple pixels on the screen.

 

Tongue in his throat, Clint shoves one flimsy plastic cup of beer into the crook of his elbow so he can dig around in his pocket for the ring, turning as he does to face Phil because it’s really now or never.

 

Except that Phil’s looking over at the section where they’ve been sitting, a bemused half-smile, half-frown on his face as he watches the scene unfolding there.

 

Confused, Clint turns to look as well, and sure enough, a few rows behind their seats, there’s a couple kissing very enthusiastically while everyone around them applauds and wolf-whistles. When they break apart, the guy’s holding the lady’s face between his hands, and he looks like he’s about to start crying as he says, “Really? _Really_?”

 

The lady’s nodding back, but when Clint glances back over to the jumbotron, which is of course zoomed right in on them, he can see the faint sheen of befuddled panic in her eyes. She keeps on nodding though, and she’s smiling at the dude, but really, if someone looked that ridiculously excited to be marrying _him,_ he’d have a hard time saying no too, no matter the circumstances.

 

“Jeez,” Phil breathes out quietly next to him. “Can you believe people are still proposing like that?”

 

“Huh?” Clint’s just standing there gaping like an idiot, and he’s so confused that he’s not really sure he’s hearing what he’s hearing.

 

Next to him, Phil’s shaking his head. “I mean, congrats to them, sure, but the whole jumbotron proposal is basically one part horrible cliché and two parts awkward public pressure.”

 

“Uh, yeah. Right.” Clint focuses on keeping the flash of embarassment simmering low in his belly from rising up to his cheeks and shoves the ring as deep into his pocket as it’ll go.

 

_Fucking strike two._

 

* * *

 

Third time’s the charm, or so Clint’s heard said. He’s aiming for a sort of middle ground this time—the romance of a quiet dinner for two and the casual atmosphere where one isn’t expected to dress too decent. So, he heads home early and cooks Phil’s favorite dinner.

 

Lasagna and garlic bread and tiramisu from somewhat scratch are all time-consuming in their own ways, but Clint figures the extra effort is kind of the point, what’ll make this dinner special and set it apart from any other time he’s made Phil dinner, like after a long op that’s kept them away from home too long or because Phil did something nice for him but Clint didn’t find out about it until later so he wants to show some sneaky appreciation of his own.

 

Clint debates decking out the table with lit candles, but the fact that they don’t own any decides it for him. He does move the Robin Tree cactus from the bookshelf over to the table, a prickly little centerpiece that he thinks suits them much better. He turns off the overhead lights and flips on the few lamps in the apartment, giving the room that dim ambiance that all the expensive restaurants go for.

 

The ring, sans jewelry box as has become customary for his proposal attempts, is in the front pocket of his jeans, ready and waiting.

 

Phil gets home a little later than anticipated, but no harm done. He looks so tired and grateful that there’s homemade food set out that Clint just smiles and slides his jacket off his shoulders to hang up.

 

Dinner is pleasant and comfortable and normal. They drink water because they try not to keep beer (or any alcohol for that matter) in the apartment, so Drunk Phil doesn’t have a chance to make an appearance. There’s no crowd of strangers surrounding them, so no worries about Phil feeling self-conscious or pressured. The romantic dinner at home might be another proposal cliché for all Clint knows (that is to say, not much) but it’s simple and easy-going and much more their speed.

 

They start in on the tiramisu, and Clint is smoothing his finger over the faint ridge of the ring through denim, when Phil awkwardly clears his throat. Clint’s stomach feels abruptly heavy because he is all too aware of Phil’s tells, and that’s his _we need to talk and it’s probably going to end in an argument_ cue.

 

Phil sets his fork down on his plate even though he’s not finished with his dessert. Translation: _not good_. “I’ve been fully cleared to return to active duty. Fury’s assigned me a new team, and we’re going to be handling mobile ops pretty much exclusively for a while.”

 

Which would be good news, yeah, but Clint knows it’s just a matter of waiting for the other shoe to drop a bombshell on his life, as per usual, so he draws out his, “O-kay.”

 

“I wanted to give you a heads up that I’m not going to be around too often for however long this assignment lasts.” Phil’s hands are very carefully laid flat on the table, and the whole measured way he’s speaking just reeks of Agent Coulson who rarely makes an appearance in their apartment, nevermind at their fucking dinner table. Clint starts pulling back in response, his usual open responses to Phil drying up as he lets the façade of Hawkeye fall into place.

 

“I realize that with our chosen occupations, the travel is expected and we’ve always dealt with it before,” Phil continues. “But this team is set up to stay on the move indefinitely. They’re letting us have a Globetrotter for ops command and field housing. This isn’t one of us being sent out on an extended mission without the other so much as it’s like being stationed at separate bases on opposite sides of the country.”

 

“Are you—” Getting the words out is a struggle, and it feels like they’re clawing at his throat the whole way up. “Are you seriously dumping me right now?”

 

“No!” Phil—and it’s definitely Phil, not Coulson, because there’s too much emotion packed into that one word, too much on display in his eyes—denies. “I’m just saying—look, this would put us in a situation a lot more akin to a long distance relationship than what we’re used to dealing with.”

 

The ring’s practically burning a brand into his thigh, he can feel its presence so hotly. “So, what? You want us to take a break while you settle into your new shiny job?”

 

Phil cringes and then shakes his head sharply. “Sorry, unfortunate flashback to _Friends_. How can I still be so pissed about a problematic storyline between two fictional characters that ended over a decade ago?”

 

“ _Phil,”_ Clint bites out, forcibly pulling him back on track. “What the fuck are you saying here?”

 

“I’m saying…” he trails off, his head tipping back to look at the ceiling while his hands curl around the edge of the table in a tight grip. He drops his head back down onto his chest after a moment with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know when we’ll next be able to see each other in person, or if it’ll even be a personal or professional setting. And while there are many options for continuing our relationship across the distance given the technology we have access to, should you, uh, meet someone while I’m on assignment—” Phil cuts himself off and there’s a twitch happening at the edge of his mouth that means he’s holding most of what he’s thinking back. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to a relationship that’s bound to come under strain if you meet someone and hit it off.”

 

There’s tears building up in Clint’s eyes, and he refuses to let Phil see his heart breaking, so he makes them be angry instead. “Are you shitting me right now? You _just said_ you weren’t breaking up with me!”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Really? ‘Cause to me it sounds like you’re telling me I need to date other people.”

 

“That’s not—” Phil stands up so quickly that his chair topples over behind him. “I—I want to stay with you, but realistically speaking, that can’t happen right now because of my assignment. I _don’t_ want us to break up over this, which is why I’m trying to get across to you that the nature of our relationship should maybe shift to something less—exclusive. For the time being.”

 

And seriously, _what the fuck_ is his life anymore? Clint can feel himself going cold—not just in the physical sense, though that’s happening too, goosebumps streaking up his arms all of a sudden—but emotionally, everything warm and fuzzy and nervous that he had building up waiting for tonight, it all freezes over in the descending wave of fury. Clint scoots his chair back and rises calmly, glaring across the table at Phil. “Fuck you,” he spits out evenly, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

 

“Clint—”

 

His hand is balling into a fist, his arm shooting out like it’s spring-loaded, and then his fist is buried in the entryway wall. He doesn’t turn back, just shouts as he’s shaking drywall dust out of the cuts in his knuckles. “No! You wanna end things with me, then have the damn balls to do it yourself. Don’t try to pin this on me like it’s something _I_ want.”

 

He slams out of the apartment after that, makes a conscious effort to focus so that he can keep out of sight when Phil eventually follows.

 

And he does, which is something at least. Clint watches him rush out the lobby door, already on his phone, from his spot on the stairs that lead down to the laundry in the basement.

 

Clint’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he slips it out just long enough to turn it off. Suddenly exhausted, Clint slumps down the stairwell wall and lands with his ass mostly hanging off one stair. The ring falls out of his pocket and hits the stone steps with a sharp _cling clang_. Clint just stares at it and begs himself not to cry.

 

* * *

 

They don’t break up. Granted, they don’t really _make up_ either. Fury calls Phil up to bat before the week’s out and then he’s gone, and they don’t get the chance to sort it all out face-to-face.

 

That’s probably for the best, though. They’ve never been ones to talk about any of the big things in their relationship. Clint’s pretty sure they’ve never even said _I love you_ outside of sure-fire life-or-death situations. Their argument’s kind of a case in point: whenever they attempt the feelings thing, they always get it wrong somehow and end up mad at each other.

 

Sitting on their unmade bed, Clint rolls the ring between his thumb and pointer finger, the slants of moonlight filtering in through the blinds bouncing off the polished silver band. That’s three times he’s tried to propose to Phil now, and he still hasn’t even managed to get the ring out of his pocket before Phil shoots him down.

 

Maybe Phil deciding to drop all this on him now is the universe’s way of telling him that marriage just isn’t in the cards for them and he should give up the ghost while he still has his dignity in tact. He presses the ring back into the folds of the jewelry box and closes it with a snap. It’s tossed into the back of the closet where all the junk gets piled up. Hopefully back there it’ll stay out of sight, out of mind.

 

Clint’s sure as shit done worrying about it.

 

* * *

 

A year down the road, and things have settled between Clint and Phil. On his bad days, Clint grouses to himself that they’re only still together because everything else in their lives has fallen to shit with SHIELD and Hydra and that whole debacle. Granted, even if he’s just a familiar lifeline meant to keep Phil grounded, it still means he’s _something_ to Phil and he’s desperate enough to hang on to whatever he can get.

 

Clint never claimed he wasn’t a pathetic idiot. Hence, he’s up on the roof of the tower, mooding up the airwaves while everyone down on the streets is busy celebrating, nevermind how ungodly hot it is. He should’ve left well enough alone and kept the ring in the box of crap he’d stashed it in when he’d moved into the tower, but marriage of all sorts is suddenly the topic of the day, and Clint was feeling just low enough that he couldn’t resist the damn thing’s siren call.

 

He hasn’t managed to do much more than stare at it so far.

 

The penthouse’s balcony doors swish open behind him and then Tony is marching out in all his sleep-deprived glory, coming to peer over the edge curiously. “Did I miss something? There’s a lot more rainbows about than there were yesterday. Tuesday? Wait, what day is it?”

 

“Friday. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of same-sex marriages being constitutional across the board.”

 

“Seriously?” Tony more falls down next to him than sits, but Clint doesn’t bother telling him he should just go to bed because he’s nice like that. “It’s about damn time.”

 

Clint snorts, but the humor doesn’t really touch him past that. “Right?”

 

Tony stretches his arms up over his head, but that seems to be about the expanse of his energy reserves ‘cause they flop right on back by his sides. “That’s a nice ring you’ve got there,” he comments, and it would sound absentminded-like except that nothing with Tony every really is.

 

“You mean it’s a cheap ring.” The silver’s dulled now, which just makes it all the more obvious how plain it is.

 

Tony looks like he’d be shrugging dismissively if he were physically capable at this point. “I’ve been told it’s more about the sentiment than the price tag, and I’m making efforts to digest that.”

 

“Did you manage to heinously insult someone in front of Steve again?”

 

“No comment.” Tony sways where he’s sitting, and Clint helpfully pushes him back so he’s lying on the balcony and can’t topple off. “So.” Tony’s still talking though, ‘cause of course he is. Clint’s pretty sure he mutters even in his sleep. “Fifty states of gay. The crowds are in the streets. You bought a ring. When’re you gonna pop the question?”

 

With a sigh, Clint pries the ring away from the little cushion and rolls it between his fingers. “Had the ring. Never managed to get the proposal right.”

 

“And today’s the day of reckoning?”

 

“Nah. He was never gonna say yes anyways.” Clint flips the ring up so that it’s resting on the tip of his finger, and the tarnished silver doesn’t even have the shine left to reflect the sunlight. He flicks it up into his palm, shifting it around until it’s centered, then draws his arm back and chucks the ring out towards the café at the end of the block.

 

Tony blinks up at him owlishly. “That could hit someone.”

 

“It won’t.”

 

“Five hundred says it pings a reveler right between the eyes and you get sued out of house and home,” Tony wails, flapping his hands dramatically.

 

There’s just a hint of a smile trying to creep across Clint’s face. “I live here.”

 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m loaded then.”

 

* * *

 

Clint drags Tony back inside and dumps him on the couch when he starts complaining about getting sunburned only because he knew where to draw the nosy line. He heads down to the range after that and has JARVIS start running target simulations, the more complex, the better.

 

He doesn’t have his phone on him (he rarely does these days because damn it all if JARVIS isn’t all kinds of helpful and screw Stark for getting him accustomed to having an AI at his beck and call) but that never stops JARVIS from answering it for him.

 

The simulation pauses and JARVIS’ cultured accent filters through the room. “Pardon the interruption, Agent Barton, but Agent Coulson is calling, and he wishes to speak with you most urgently.”

 

Clint tightens his grip on his bow and exits the range, barely managing to constrain his gait to a swift jog. “Shit—what kind of urgent?”

 

JARVIS opens the elevator doors for him even as he’s assuring Clint with, “Apologies, it does not appear to be in relation to a mission, but rather a matter of a personal nature. Shall I put him through?”

 

Clint’s not sure whether that’s actually good news or not. “Yeah, go for it,” he says with a resigned sigh. “Thanks, Jay.”

 

The call connects over the elevator speakers as JARVIS starts it moving towards his floor. Before he can even get out a greeting, though, Phil demands, “Where’s my ring?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The announcement’s all over the news. And the internet. And the streets. The Avengers haven’t been deployed for at least a week. You have no excuse to be missing this.”

 

“I didn’t miss anything, asshole—” Clint starts in defensively, but then Phil’s talking right over him.

 

“I got May to agree to a full week of no interruptions. I know a tropical paradise is the usual honeymoon destination, but I have unfortunate associations with tropical islands these days, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather skip it.”

 

Clint stares at his own befuddled expression in the mirrored walls of the elevator. “What’s happening here?”

 

“I was thinking we could road trip from coast to coast. Or maybe just to the Midwest because we’ll inevitably get distracted once we find a decent bed. As a concession for what is ostensibly a holiday, I’ll even let you listen to _Route 66_ on repeat. You may sing along to your heart’s content.”

 

The elevator doors open with a faint _ping_ and Clint steps off, shaking his head. “Time out. Can we rewind like, two minutes? ‘Cause I feel like I’ve stumbled into one of those conversations you have with yourself and assume I was around for.”

 

“In my defense, you do have a habit of lurking in vents and drop ceilings, so I’m sure you were present for most of them.”

 

“ _Phil._ ”

 

“Quinjet’s landing now. Meet me on your floor so I can pick out an appropriate suit.”

 

“I’m already here. What do I need a suit for?” Clint flings his arms out in exasperation, but then remembers that Phil can’t see him to appropriately gauge his done-with-your-shit meter.

 

Except that the elevator slides open again behind him and Phil’s waltzing into his suite, thumbing at his phone to end the call and coming right up to Clint to kiss him hello, as in _hellooooo, Phil._

 

Phil pulls back with a faint smile and runs a hand over Clint’s forearm. His muscles are still tight because he rushed up here without going through his usual cool-down routine. “Range?” Phil asks, but he doesn’t pause for an answer. “You need to shower. You stink of sweat.”

 

With that shot in, Phil moves past him and into the bedroom, opening the closet to run a critical eye over the few suits Clint has allowed to remain. He pulls out the charcoal and starts to lay it out on the bed before noticing the rumpled sheets and piles of t-shirts. Flicking a quick frown Clint’s way, he rotates his arm so that suit is draped over his back and starts opening Clint’s drawers, poking around at the contents.

 

“It’s got to be around here somewhere. You were hiding it in the closet at the apartment, which, don’t think I didn’t have a good laugh about that when I found it.” Well _shit_. Phil is apparently looking through his underwear drawer for the ring he chucked off the roof of the tower around three hours ago. Awkward. “But we have an appointment at the Clerk’s office, and while I don’t imagine they’re as busy as some other states’ today, it’d still be bad form to show up late, so I need you to start getting ready.”

 

“Clerk’s office—we're getting married? _Today?_ ” Clint sputters out.

 

“Yes. I’ve given you plenty of time to make it happen, but I’m done waiting.” Phil’s stare is level and a wee bit intimidating. “Simmons implied that I was old enough to be her grandfather the other day. _Her grandfather,_ Clint. I am not that old.”

 

Lightheaded all of a sudden, Clint can only reply, “You sorta are, I mean, biologically speaking—”

 

“Not another word,” Phil cuts in. “Strip. Shower. Get dressed. _Now_.”

 

That brisk Agent Coulson voice is enough to snap Clint out of his haze and back to the here and now, but that just reminds him that the present isn’t making much sense at the moment. “What the fuck—you can’t just waltz in here and assume we’re getting married, Phil!”

 

“Yes, I can. This is how we work. Honestly, I was expecting you to subtly walk me by the courthouse one day and push me inside, but we don’t get enough time together as it is, so—”

 

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

 

Phil raises a curious eyebrow. “Sorry?”

 

And that right there, that is just the last fucking straw for Clint, ‘cause how can Phil be so _fucking oblivious?_ “I tried proposing to you _three times_ , man—”

 

“What?”

 

“—and you made it fairly obvious that that’s not what you were looking for, so fucking _excuse me_ for being a little confused when you show up saying wedding bells are in the air—”

 

Phil tosses the suit onto the bed, wrinkles be damned apparently, and starts gesticulating wildly. “You never—oh God, that _was_ a proposal dinner! I thought I’d forgotten it was our anniversary! You _never_ want to go somewhere that requires a reservation, I should’ve known. But that was just the once—”

 

Clint really can’t help the glare that’s happening right now; that’s on Phil, and is _not his fault._ “Remember the baseball game?”

 

“Oh, no.” Phil’s face falls and his skin goes pale, and then he’s stepping towards Clint, reaching a hand out to grab his shirt and keep Clint where he is. “ _Shit_. I’m such a fucking idiot, I’m so sorry! I _insulted your proposal_! What is wrong with me!? I mean, I thought it was kind of weird, a woman proposing to a man like that at a game, not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, just that you don’t see it very often—” Phil clamps his mouth shut and he looks stricken before he drops his head down onto Clint’s shoulder and mutters, “I’m just digging the hole deeper and deeper, aren’t I?”

 

Clint’s not sure if he should be wrapping his arms around Phil right now or putting him to bed because this kind of loose-lipped rambling hardly ever makes an appearance unless something's been slipped into his drink on a mission. “What’s happening right now?” Clint asks dazedly.

 

“I may have had a glass of wine to try and calm my nerves,” Phil admits lowly. “I think it’s starting to hit me.”

 

Clint knocks his head into Phil’s. “You thought puking on me while we exchanged vows at the courthouse was a good idea?”

 

“It was Skye’s idea.”

 

“The puking?”

 

“The wine.”

 

Shaking his head, Clint raises his hands to grasp Phil’s shoulders and pushes him back so that he can look him in the eye. “Okay, back on track. Are you serious right now? You really wanna marry me?” Clint doesn’t want to analyze that particular tone his voice is hitting right now, so he’s just going to ignore it and focus on the Big Deal.

 

“Of course I do!” Phil scoffs like it’s some foregone conclusion, a fact that needs no checking, and Clint finds himself smiling. “Wait, what was the third time?”

 

Well, that smile was short-lived. “Doesn’t matter.” He backs off and skirts around Phil to pick up the suit, stopping at his dresser to grab appropriate underwear.

 

“Yes, it does. I need to know so I can apologize for totally missing it. _Again_.”

 

Clint shrugs and walks towards the bathroom. “When’s the appointment? I still got time to shower?”

 

“We have forty-five minutes, but—”

 

“Cool. Give me five. Ten tops.” Clint shuts the door behind him even though they’re long past having boundaries in the bathroom. He just needs a minute to get his head screwed back on right and then he’ll be ready to do this, ready to _marry Phil, holy fuck._

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, dress shirt on but unbuttoned, with socks and underwear but no pants, Phil’s still standing where he left him, his mouth that tense line that's worse than a frown and his eyebrows scrunched together mournfully. “You made me dinner,” he rasps out. “And I ruined it. As usual.”

 

Clint stops in the doorway, his hair dripping down onto his collar, and lets all the insecurities and bad thoughts he’s been struggling with since that fight take over his stance, his expression, so Phil can finally see what a mess he’s been.

 

Phil strides forward, right up into his bubble of personal space in three steps, and cups Clint’s face in his hands. “I love you. I want to marry you. Today or tomorrow or whenever you’re ready. There is nothing I have every wanted more than to be with you. Always.”

 

Clint gulps, and he hates that it’s audible, that he’s so vulnerable right now, but it’s Phil, and it’s okay to let all his walls down around Phil even if he hasn’t gotten to do it in a while. He leans forward so that their foreheads are pressed together and whispers, “Me, too.”

 

Phil’s eyes are shining bright and the crow’s feet around the edges crinkle as he smiles at Clint. “So ask me.”

 

Clint has to close his eyes and just breath for a moment, relishing the feel of air moving back and forth between them, they’re so close together. He blinks them back open and tries to focus on Phil’s eyes even though this close is too close for shit like that, and asks, “Phil, will you—”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

With a groan, Clint pulls back and socks Phil in the shoulder. “You’re such a fuck nugget! You tell me to ask you, but then you don’t even let me get the whole question out—”

 

Chuckling as he stumbles back, Phil waves for him to finish getting dressed already. “We’re on a deadline at the moment. Put on your pants and you can keep griping at me all the way to the courthouse.”

 

Clint pivots sharply on his heel and steps around the bathroom door to grab the suit where it’s hanging on the back, calling out, “And for the rest of our lives!”

 

“Yeah,” Phil replies, his voice that honey-warm tone that sounds of nothing but fondness. “That’s kind of the point.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any mistakes; I only did a quick read-through before posting because I'm done staring at this out-of-control monster, but I'll come back and finish editing this one later!
> 
> Also, props to you if you can guess what fic I had in mind as the prequel to this one!


End file.
